


Uncle, Effervescent, Gamine, Full

by stargategeek



Series: Spearmint, Cigarettes, Lilac, Champagne [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Champagne, F/M, Modern Royalty, Naughty, Politics, Scheming, Sexy, Uncle-Niece Relationship, a little kinky, page boy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 18:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17309585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: “Prime Minister!”He was the picture of unflappability.“What is the nature of your relationship with the Princess of Winterfell?”He smiles giving away nothing.“Purely avuncular.”





	Uncle, Effervescent, Gamine, Full

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ophelia_Raine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/gifts).



~~~~

“Prime Minister!”

He was the picture of unflappability.

“What is the nature of your relationship with the Princess of Winterfell?”

He smiles giving away nothing.

“Purely avuncular.”

~~~~

**Uncle**

“Sweetling?”

She told herself she came up for the quiet, for the cold fresh air, for the freedom.

“Lord Baelish,” she curtsies.

“Please Princess, you need not be so formal with me. Not when we’re alone. Call me Petyr.”

Sansa does not call him anything. Averting his alluring gaze, she turns from him to look out amongst the moonlit garden. The early snow had already left a white covering over the grounds - the whole estate sparkled blue under the stars. From the rooftop of the palace one could almost call the sight romantic. Though Sansa knew the truth now - there was no such thing as romance - like everything it is merely a game of wits. Who will win and who will be discarded? Sansa had already learnt the hard way how it feels to be the latter. She was determined never to fall again.

Sansa shivers. He mistakenly believes it to be the cold and removes his dinner jacket in a fluid motion. Sansa can smell cigarette smoke, sense the warmth of him all along her backside, taste the tinge of his aftershave on the air as he comes invasively close. Which is why she followed him up here - why he couldn’t.

“Are you really going to marry her?”

The words tumble out of her mouth unbidden. Petyr is momentarily taken aback by her bluntness, but soon eases into a teasing grin. An infuriating quirk of his mouth. His answer, whatever it was, would not be gotten so easy.

He gave her a lazy shrug.

“And what if I was? Would that bother you sweetling?”

He knew it would.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

His smile lingers while his hands reach into his breast pocket. She watches intently as he places the cigarette in his own mouth and lights it, dragging on it expertly. The glowing end adds a strange hint of devilish menace to his dark features.

He pulls it away, blowing out the smoke in a long steady stream. It curls around him in ghostly wisps. It makes him look dreadfully handsome.

“She wants to marry me. I have not accepted yet.“

Petyr hands the cigarette to her. Sansa purses her lips around it thoughtfully.

“Why not? It would be a very advantageous match for you. You’d become a duke.”

She holds out the smoking appendage to him and he steps closer, his fingers curling around hers and lingering.

Petyr’s eyes search hers, looking beyond her porcelain veneer - unlike anyone else in her life. Everyone else saw the good princess and looked no further. Petyr sees something much darker, much more real.

“If I became a duke I would be set for life. I would have titles and estates, and privileges beyond anything I could imagine. An interminable life of ease.”

Her hand tingles where he touches it. The goosebumps prickle up her arm.

“But I find my ambition goes beyond mere security,” he steps that much closer, invading her space, filling her senses with the scent of mint and spice. His eyes threaten to swallow her whole as he leans ever closer. “I want something far more dangerous...and rewarding.”

Sansa closes her eyes, willing him to break the barrier between them that has permeated every one of their interactions since that fateful day when he arrived at Winterfell Palace.

“And what about you sweetling?” he tosses the cigarette over the balustrade.

Her lips press together. “Everyone expects me to be the perfect princess and I’m not. Mother wants me to be just like her and I’m...”

“Yes...”

She sees it there - in his eyes - the eager little flame of his ambition.

“I find I want more than just being the good, dutiful daughter and princess. I want...so much more.”

His lips curl into a deviously coy smile. He nods his head, a look coming over his eyes as though he is wrestling with a decision.

“You and I...” he says purposefully slow and measured. “...are not unalike.” He steps that much closer. “Sansa...” his finger curls around a lock of hair dangling just above her breast.

“What do you want?”

His eyes flicker open - alight.

“Everything.”

In the end it is Sansa that leans in and kisses him first. An inexperienced kiss, full of the eagerness and uncertainty of youth - but given a moment of surprise, and another of pleasant discovery, Petyr quickly steps into his role of mentor - slowing her inclining lips to a better pace and guiding her with his skilled tongue.

One hand cups her head, tangles its fingers in her hair - the other cups her waist and pulls her to him.

“Petyr...” she sighs against his lips - his name still foreign on her tongue. Her heart thrills though when his smile curls upwards - undeniably pleased.

“For the sake of our plans, sweetling, I think it best you call me Uncle.”

~~~~

**Effervescent**

Her nose tickles as much from the champagne as from the hint of mint permeating the air.

“To the happy couple!”

The room raises their glasses in cheers. He smiles - boyishly - and leans his head down to give the pre-requisite kiss to his beaming fiancé. Everyone applauds. Sansa’s hand clutches tighter on the stem of her flute.

The hand pressing between Petyr’s shoulder blades slides precariously down his back, momentarily dipping under the waist of his impeccably tailored trousers - a secret little gesture, so quick no one would’ve noticed if they weren’t paying attention. And she was. Of course she was.

Sansa lifts the glass of champagne to her lips, her nose once again tickled by the bubbles as she took a tentative sip.

She watches carefully as the hand glides back up the curve of his spine then down further under the line of his trousers. She squeezes him, and his tidy little ass makes a little hop in surprise.

Aunt Lysa was never one for subtlety.

“I’ve wanted him forever,” she sighs dreamily, recanting their love story to anyone who would hear. “And now I’ve finally got him.”

He catches her gaze from over the rim of his glass. And smiles.

Lysa’s hand grips him once more, possessively. An almost child-like rendition of passion.

Sansa manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Petyr can’t help but keep looking over at her inbetween moments of Lysa’s wispy sighs and cooing kisses.

He kisses her once more, lingering - his grey eyes flicking to Sansa briefly.

“Why don’t you show off your wedding present?” he mutters into her lips. Lysa grins widely like a greedy child.

“He is so sweet, come!” Lysa escorts half the room out to the stables to admire her new Arabian steed. A few remain - chatting idly in the corners, or frittering over the canapés and refilling their champagne.

Petyr did not follow the crowd though. Sansa thinks she hates how casual he can behave sometimes. Smoothing the lines of his suit, dropping his half-drunk glass on the tray of a passing server. The master of ease.

Sansa watches him like a hawk - waiting - willing him to approach her. It’s as though he can sense her want and he deliberately draws it out.

Petyr makes a slow circle of the room, shaking one guest’s hand, laughing at another's anecdote, stopping to admire the portrait of Hoster Tully that adorned the mantel with a slick sense of satisfaction. This whole farce of an engagement was nothing but amusing to him.

Finally, in his turn, he made his way to her, fetching two freshly filled glasses off another passing tray.

“Do try not to look so sullen,” he hands her the flute, his pinky finger just grazing her hand during the transfer. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”

Even that barest touch has her insides roiling.

Petyr takes her now empty glass from her other hand and deposits it on the sideboard beside them.

“What are you thinking sweetling?”

He is close now. Unbearably close. She can smell the mint off him and something deep within her belly flips over.

“It’s all so revolting,” her voice is even, despite the way her body vibrates against the warmth of his body.

Petyr clicks his tongue. “Green eyes do not become you, sweetling.”

His own eyes sparkle with green as he brings the champagne up to his lips. He really could be a patronizing asshole sometimes.

A thought suddenly sparks in her head. A wee wicked thought. And suddenly all the bitterness and seething leaves her - awash with a new amusement.

“Of course, I’m happy to welcome you to the family Uncle,” she says loudly enough. Her free arm slips around his waist in a tender side hug. A purely familial gesture to anyone watching. “Do you wish me to be more happy for you?” she mutters lowly, through a tight smile.

Her hand rests gently against his back, teasing the space between the scapula. Despite his composure, she can feel him press into her touch. So much more eager than with his fiancé. Sansa casually brings the champagne to her lips to sip.

“On the contrary, Princess,” he looks around the room lazily, maintaining his casual air, even as her hand slowly draws downward. “I find your jealousy to be quite...” Her nose snuffles, irritated by the bubbles. His eyes snap to her - curious, amused, dark. “...Effervescent.”

Sansa’s face remains porcelain, her body held regally and poised, but her eyes darken, reflecting the desire undoubtedly in his.

She smiles deftly. The chintz wall to their backs - her hand dips lower.

“Lysa’s so proud of her new steed,” Sansa’s hand sneaks into the back of Petyr’s trousers, gliding slowly over the swell of his ass. He masks the pleasurable hue to his countenance with a face of calm geniality. Once again looking from her to survey the room.

Perfect, she thinks.

“Little does she know,” Sansa continues. Measured. Calculating. She has been practicing. Her middle finger extends to find the tight little seam of his crack blindly under the fabric. Petyr’s smile was even more pleased, which he hid by bringing the champagne up to his mouth. “That horse is not the only animal worth riding.”

The head of her middle finger found the puckered perineum of his ass and slipped inside. The sudden intrusion caught him so in surprise, that he lurched, spluttering on the bubbly liquid unceremoniously.

Sansa’s hand left him. Satisfied.

“Congratulations on your engagement, Petyr,” Sansa smiles triumphantly. Finishing the rest of her glass in one sweet gulp.

~~~~

**Gamine**

“You like it?” she steps into his office and he laughs.

“Were you trying for sexy page boy?”

“Shut up.”

“I mean I like it.”

He fingers the dark boyish wig atop her head.

“You would make a very sexy page boy,” he cups her chin and brings her lips down for a kiss. “The outfit’s all wrong though.”

He grips the material of the high-waisted trousers.

“What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“It’s too stark,” he grins knowingly. She rolls her eyes.

“All you told me was that I shouldn’t dress like a princess. And here I am.”

“Putting on trousers doesn’t make you any less of a princess.”

He pats the top of his desk, gesturing for her to hop on to it. She does, spreading her knees wide enough so that he can step between them.

He reaches over her to his phone, and presses a button.

“Ros, bring in the number thirteen for me, please.”

“Yes, boss.”

Sansa eyes him warily. “What are you up to Uncle?”

He grins. “An education.” He fingers the wig again then trails the finger down her neck and over her bare shoulder. “I want you in something wicked.”

Distracted by his finger she does not feel his other hand at the button of her trousers until the snap pops loose and she hears him slowly lower the zipper.

“How about nothing at all?” she whispers huskily against his temple, nuzzling him with the tip of her nose.

Petyr smiles devilishly. “All in due time.” He places a soft, sultry kiss to the base of her throat. “I want to take you somewhere, sweetling. And if anyone there knew you were the Princess of Winterfell,” he teasingly clicks his tongue.

Sansa smiles, intrigued.

A knock at the door and he abandons her, exchanging some curt words with his secretary - trading a slip of paper with a number on it for a garment bag on a hanger.

“This should suit you just fine,” he turns to Sansa and grins. He hands her the garment bag to dress.

“Petyr, I can’t wear this!”

“Oh you most certainly can.”

Sansa steps out from behind the screen, her heart racing.

“Oh, sweetling,” Petyr groans. Pleased.

The outfit he’s chosen for her is a truly bastardized rendition of a school boy’s uniform, with cut outs in the shirt for her breasts to peek out - and meant to fit through a little hole in the tight blue trousers is a six inch flesh coloured strap on. Sansa holds the dildo in her hand, absolutely mortified. Her cheeks tinge crimson red.

“Its perfect.“

“I’m not going out like this.”

Petyr smiles. “You don’t have to.” He grabs her by the lapels of the small uniform jacket, tugging her close to him. “This,” he takes the dildo from her with one hand while the other tugs the shorts just down enough that he can hook the straps over her hips, and maneuver the head of the dildo through the little hole. “...is all for me.”

Sansa ducks her eyes, her mouth falling into an utterly kissable moue.

“These,” his hand grazes the cut outs, admiring the puckering skin of her areola. “Are meant to go with pasties. Which I will give to you in a moment if you’ll indulge me.”

Petyr bends his head and draws one of her breasts into his mouth. Sansa’s hands immediately fly to his hair, her eyes fluttering closed as she sighs.

“And the other?” she sighs, nudging his thigh with the head of the rubbery cock. Petyr pulls his mouth away, smirking.

“That’s for me also.”

He kisses her other breast, palming the opposite one before slowly dropping to one knee, kissing her stomach.

“You make such a beautiful little boy, sweetling,” he teases, his hand sliding over her hip. “A beautiful,” he kisses her hip bones. “Beautiful,” lower. “Little boy.” He kisses the head of the dildo and gives her a playful little wink.

Sansa giggles. “You’re so weird.”

He switches on the vibrator within the strap on, causing Sansa’s core to lurch, bucking almost into Petyr’s face.

“I’m a member of the House of Lords,” Petyr grins, slipping the other knee to the ground. “You’ll find we’re all a bit weird.”

He winks and then slides his mouth around the dildo, taking it in deeply.

~~~~

**Full**

“Can I come in?“

It’s raining. She’s drenched. Petyr wordlessly steps aside for her to pass by. She moves in quickly. She hears him lock the door behind her.

His townhouse is mostly dark save for some mood lighting from the sconces and an electric fireplace in the den. Under his veneer he’s an old romantic. Leather and whiskey and smoke.

She stands in the centre of his front room in the dim light, red hair dripping and shivering.

“You’re soaked.”

Her bottom lip quivers as proof.

“Come,” he takes her hand and leads her to his den, to the soft suede couch before the fireplace. He sits her on the edge of the overstuffed seat and kneaks before her. Ringed fingers ghost over her chilled legs, on to the expensive louboutins that adorn her feet. He grazes then appreciatively - she has exquisite taste.

However, the rain has ruined these. He pries them carefully off her feet and sets them on the hearth to dry.

Wordlessly he rises to his feet and leaves the room returning shortly with a towel and one of his pale button downs.

“Here,” he offers her the shirt in exchange for her damp dress.

She changes silently, acutely aware of how he watches her. Eyes lingering long after peeling off her wet lace bra. The cold tips of her nipples gleam in the firelight. His mouth presses together in a soft pucker.

She shivers and reaches for the soft yellow shirt to cover her despite the warmth of his gaze.

Most people would think him something of an uncle to her. Most people didn’t see them when they were alone.

He disappeara again only to return holding a grey pair of briefs.

“You’re underwear too,” he gestures with his head to the flimsy lace knickers leaving a damp little spot on his sofa. She lifts her glass-like eyes, expression fixed in a tantalizing enigma of porcelain and pure regal refinement. Her fingers hook into her underwear and pull them down her long, pale legs.

Petyr held out the underwear just far enough away that she had to shift her position, allowing him a small peak of her upper thighs from under the shirt tails. She snatches the grey briefs from him in a moment of distraction and laughs - darting around the couch with her stolen prize so that the back of the couch just barely shields her bareness from his gaze.

He watches her, amused - her back rigid straight as she curtsies to the floor - never breaking eye-contact - and slips the briefs over her legs, sidling them up inch by inch, achingly slow.

It took real skill to entice a man whilst putting one’s clothes on.

Petyr breaks their stare off and sniffs with a laugh. A quiet, reserved laugh that dimples his cheeks in such a handsome way.

“Shall I make you some tea?”

He made to leave the den once more and she rushes to catch him by his shirtsleeve. She couldn’t explain it. She wanted him to stay.

“Something stronger, perhaps?”

His puckered mouth twisted into a knowing grin. He nods, moving instead to the liquor cabinet.

“Wine or whiskey?”

Her look was quizzical.

“Those are the choices,” he reiterates.

“Whiskey. I wouldn’t want to stain your shirt.”

He leers, pouring them both two fingers.

“So,” he grins handing her the tumblr. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Princess?”

He only ever calls her Princess when he is toying with her.

Sansa doesn’t answer, and smiles around the rim of her glass.

“Is Aunt Lysa in?”

His leer deepens.

“You know she’s not.”

Sansa nods, and continues sipping at her whiskey.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” she shrugs, fingering the frame of one of his tasteful black and white photographs. “You take this?”

Petyr takes a drink of whiskey and tips his head.

“It’s good. I should have you photograph me sometime.”

His leer pulls to the left side of his face.

“I’m afraid my work would not be well-suited for Winterfell Palace.”

“Mmm, like the official ones done by Sir Rodrik?“

“Indeed.”

She leans close to him. “Who said anything about an official photograph?”

Her eyes are dangerous and unreadable. His expression is calm but intrigued. It seems he was not receiving a visit from the Princess today. This was an altogether different creature.

Sansa wanders, seemingly aimlessly around the den, fingering books and sipping the dark amber liquid. It was not aimless, of course. Her trajectory was as calculated as a ballistic missile. Just waiting to strike.

Petyr made himself comfortable on the settee and chose to watch her, patiently.

She was fishing and he would not give her an inch. It was she who appeared on his front step, soaked to the skin, after all.

“I happened to have lunch today with the wife of a very prominent figure of 10 King’s Road.”

That sparks a little of his curiosity.

“Did you?“

“We had a very illuminating chat, about the powerful women behind powerful men. My mother. My aunt. All examples of women using their influence behind the scenes to bolster their husbands.”

Petyr sips his whiskey, looking pleased with the track of conversation.

“And then of course there’s me.”

His eyes catch hers and it feels like flint to the flame.

“You...” he bites. “You haven’t got a husband.”

Sansa smiles.

“No, but I do have a certain level of persuasive power. Don’t you think?”

He smiles. “Of course, sweetling.“

“Isn’t that what you’ve always taught me, Uncle?”

“Me?” he bats his eyes innocently.

“To smile, and play the dutiful princess, and to never let them know what I want. To let them think it was all their idea.”

Sansa is suddenly standing over him, her pale long legs bumping against his knees.

“Isn’t that what you taught me, Petyr?”

He put his drink down on the side table.

“Why did you really come tonight, Sansa?”

She smiles victoriously.

“Can I see your phone?”

His eyes crinkle quizzically. He shifts in his seat to pull his cell phone from his back pocket and holds it out to her in the space between them.

As she reaches to grab it his grip slackens, causing the phone to drop just out of her reach. Her eyes flick to him with amusement. He relents, giving her the phone in earnest. She smiles with her prize.

“What are you up to, Princess?”

“I’m expecting a call,” she says vaguely, gently placing the phone on the arm rest.

Petyr sinks back into the overstuffed cushions of the settee. His legs stretching in between the gap of her legs, his hands falling lazily to the sides.

“Come here,” he wiggles the fingers of his left hand, adopting a soft, authoritative tone.

Sansa smiles and crawls into his lap, placing one knee on either side of his hips, supporting herself so she just hovers over his waiting crotch. She leans close as if to kiss him, and his neck stretches to accommodate her - disappointed when she diverts him to grab his his tumblr of whiskey off the side table - her own abandoned somewhere on the mantle.

The alcohol makes her cheeks flush.

The expression on her face is demure. Regal despite its porcelain fragility. She at once looks like a helpless child and a devious hellcat. His hands fall to her calves, stroking them gently. Her blue eyes slip closed.

“Your hands are so warm.”

“Are they?”

They slither upwards. Fingers ghosting her bottom and hips to sidle underneath the shirt fabric to just graze her chilled breasts.

“My god, you’re freezing,” he sighs lying his hot palms over them. “This will not do at all.”

She laughs, tossing her drying hair behind her shoulder with a smart flick of her head.

“I told you I needed you daddy.”

His hips shift ever so slightly against her. She takes another sip of whiskey.

“That won’t warm you as well as I can,” his voice is husky and soft.

“I don’t doubt it.“

Her hands make quick work of the buttons of her shirt so that soon the two sides of the fabric fall open to expose the sweet underside of her breasts.

Uncle indeed.

“Mmm,” his brow furrows with concentration. One hand slips around her back to grab a fistful of hair whilst his mouth replaces it’s position on her breast. Sucking the nipple into the hot, wet cavity and nipping it between teeth.

Sansa drags her hand from the back of his neck, down his chest to the fly of his trousers, working quickly to reach into his boxer briefs, and draw his hardening length out. A simple shift of fabric and he inside her - his mouth pausing in its laborous work to pull back and groan.

“Fuck,” he sinks further into the sofa, pulling her along with him. Sansa falls against his chest, cradled by him. They sink so far his ass practically hangs half off the couch. A simple shift of his legs, and a small thrust - his position adjusted. Sansa moans, sitting up on him fully, taking him deeper inside.

Oh if anyone saw them together it would be quite the scandal, quite the scandal indeed.

The Princess and her Uncle. How would the monarchy cope? Yet looking down on him like this, watching his cock as it disappeared high up into the cunt of the Princess of Winterfell - until she was full with it. Watching his eyes dilute with the smug heady pleasure of literally fucking a dynasty. Sansa knew there was no one else in the world she wanted beside her when she became a Queen.

“Sansa...Sansa,” he moans softly on every downbeat as she bounces in his lap, thoroughly fucking him into the suede.

“Tell me...” she grips his hair harshly, causing him to hiss. “Tell me you’re going to make me a Queen.”

He laughs which quickly dissolves into a moan. “Ahh, I will, I will.”

“Say it! Say I’m your Queen.”

“You’re my Queen....uhhhhh, you’re my Queen. I will make sure of it. I’ll move fucking mountains!”

He thrusts particularly sharp and drag his thumb against her clit sending her over the edge just as the phone beside them lit up with an incoming call.

“Mmmm, I’m glad we’re on the same page Petyr,” Sansa leans forward and kisses him briefly. Her post-orgasm glow warmed by the fireplace behind her, and the keen, smug, satisfaction writ in her face.

Petyr eyes the phone beside them.

“I don’t know that phone number.

Sansa smiles.

“Thankfully, I do.”

She sits up, his cock still inside her, and picks up the phone, opening the lock screen with ease, and swiping to answer.

“Hello, this is Petyr Baelish’s phone,” she says in a clipped, secretarial manner. Petyr heard someone speaking on the other end of the line. His face thoroughly scrunched with confusion. “Yes, he’s right here.” Sansa continues. “No he is not busy at the moment.” Petyr laughs, thrusting up to remind just how occupied he was. “Absolutely, one moment please.”

Sansa shakes her sex-mussed hair behind her back.

“It’s for you. I believe you’ll want to hear what they have to say.”

Petyr looks at her for a long moment, as if every aspect of their entire interaction up until now was just starting to click into place. He takes the phone.

“Baelish,” he says his eyes never leaving hers. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Alright....I see. I will be there. Thank you.”

He hangs up the phone, dropping it unceremoniously to the cushions in favor of curling his hands tightly around Sansa’s hips.

She smiles, biting the edge of her forefinger.

“Sweetling...” he says softly. “I just had a very illuminating chat.”

“I thought you might.”

“About the powerful women, behind powerful men.”

“Ooh, sounds awfully enlightening.”

“It seems, the Princess has staged a coup.”

“The Princess of Winterfell, never!”

He smiles, a mixture of pride and something far, far darker in his eyes. He gives a pointed thrust up into her.

“What have you got planned for your dear, sweet Uncle, Sansa?“

Sansa smirks, the look in her eyes reflecting his own. She leans down to kiss him.

“I believe the official title is: Prime Minister.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Belated New Years!!!
> 
> I finally got this one finished! It’s two am and I have a headache, but there you go! 
> 
> As always, this is for the incomparable Ophelia_Raine!


End file.
